


The Things We Cannot Say

by Chamelaucium



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love, but is it?, they're both so silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 02:01:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9299216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chamelaucium/pseuds/Chamelaucium
Summary: A chance purchase at the market reawakens Bilbo's love and skill of painting - he will sit for hours, happily mixing colours to his heart's content.And then the requests start coming for portraits, including from the one dwarf who makes Bilbo's heart skip a beat. If it means he gets to spend evenings in Thorin's company under the guise of a reference for his painting, who is Bilbo to refuse?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hola folks, guess who's back again!
> 
> This has been sitting on my computer since September 2014, half finished, so I decided to re-write it and finish it finally, so I hope you'll enjoy it! It's plenty fluffy, this one.
> 
> (Again, please forgive any OoC-ishness, I'm still getting back into writing... )

Burnt umber, deep ochre and mustard; crimson, emerald and royal blue. The blocks of paint were a rainbow – a myriad of colours just waiting to be freed and put onto paper, their vibrancy restored with a little water and a fine brush. Even the smell of them was as rich as Bilbo knew their colour would be.

The dwarf in charge of the stall regarded him with a pleased expression as Bilbo looked up from where he’d been examining the box of paints rather enthusiastically – dabbling with a paintbrush had been a hobby of his and with paints as fine as these, he was eager to try his hand at it again. Perhaps he was not as skilled at drawing as Ori, but he did have an eye for colour.

Bilbo smiled back at the stallholder and moved to draw out his money pouch, but the dwarf forestalled him.

“No charge, sir,” he said, bowing as Bilbo paused. “The Hero of Erebor shall want for nothing, if it is in my power to grant it.” And he gave Bilbo such a pleased smile that Bilbo couldn’t bring himself to protest and instead slipped his coins back into his pocket, more than a little bemused, and accepted the package gratefully.

The market in Erebor was busy and he had to push against the flow of people to get to his friend at the food stall; more than once he was greeted heartily by dwarves he didn’t know and felt his face flush a little every time he was called the Hero or Rescuer of Erebor. He was no such thing, in all reality; perhaps he could get Thorin to do something about it. But the thought of Thorin made his cheeks warm for a completely different reason and he pushed the image of the King out of his mind, focusing instead on reaching Bofur without dropping his package.

“You got everything?” the hatted dwarf asked him as he drew level with him, handing over some coins to the lady in exchange for a delicious-smelling wrapped pie. Bilbo looked at it and Bofur winked - Bombur would gut him if he thought his brother preferred anyone else’s cooking over his.

“I’m done for the day,” Bilbo told him, lifting the package slightly. “I’ll be glad to get back though.” While the market was an experience it was certainly a tiring one and Bilbo was looking forward to dallying with his paintbrushes and new paints a little.

Bofur reached out and plucked the parcel from Bilbo’s arms, eliciting a little huff of surprise from Bilbo as he tried to retrieve them. “You looked like you were struggling,” Bofur grinned. “Anything for the Hero of Erebor,” he continued, dodging Bilbo’s elbow. If anyone should know not to call him that, it was Bofur.

They made it back to their quarters soon enough and Bofur helped Bilbo unpack his purchases – besides the paints Bilbo had bought a little pot plant, just to brighten his rooms a little. There was ever so much stone and nowhere near enough greenery, despite the efforts that had been made to make his quarters look like his home back at Bag End.

“What are these?” Bofur asked, prodding at the dark blocks of paint. Bilbo explained, smiling at his friend’s unimpressed expression. “But it’s hard,” Bofur protested. “And they don’t look very colourful to me.”

“That’s because they’re dry,” Bilbo told him. “Look-” He hurried to clear a space on his desk and fetched his journal, the pages thick vellum, and a little glass of water. Carefully he wet the brush and set it to a green paint block – at first a dull dark colour but at the first touch of water to the paint it bloomed a bright bud of the green of summer leaves. He drew a careful stripe on his page and then washed it with more water, spreading the colour across the parchment.

Bofur had watched the entire process with interest and his eyes were bright with mischief when he turned to Bilbo then. “Can you paint me?”

Bilbo hadn’t been expecting that and he set the brush down, cheeks flushing at the request. In all honesty, his painting experience amounted mostly to small colour sketches of the flowers in his garden or landscapes of the Shire; the only portraits he’d attempted had been ones of his parents. While not exactly masterpieces, his mother had loved them and had hung them together by her bed; now they lived above his mantelpiece in the parlour – or at least, they did if Lobelia hadn’t looted the place by now.

“I’m not sure,” he stalled. “I’m not very practiced at drawing people. Flowers are easier.”

“Not to worry,” Bofur smiled,still his ever-jovial self. “It was worth a try. But I want to see you paint your flowers sometime.” With that he straightened his hat and stood, heading towards the door and saying goodbye – Bombur was expecting him in the kitchen. Bilbo let him go and when he was gone set to sketching out the shape of one of the geraniums he’d bought, filling it with colour. Mixing the colours was his favourite part, watching the flower come to life as he fed it, brush by brush, with the vitality of colour. It may not be the most expertly drawn geranium, but the depth to its colour made it look almost real.

As the evening wore on, he amused himself with summoning other blossoms from his memory onto the page, filling a double-page spread with all the liveliness of his garden back home in the Shire.

A sudden knock on the door made him jump and he almost knocked over his water glass, he’d been so absorbed in his work. “Come in,” he called as he rinsed his brush and set it down before turning to face the newcomer.

His heart leapt about as high as he had a moment ago at the sight of Thorin in the doorway, dressed in his fine clothes and furs so rich and full of light and shadow Bilbo found himself itching to translate it into paint on paper.

“You’re late for dinner,” Thorin said, his low voice pulling Bilbo firmly back to the present. He didn’t sound cross, merely amused.

“I am?” Bilbo asked, surprised. “I didn’t realise.” He stood hastily as Thorin headed further into the room, suddenly extremely shy of his amateurish attempts at art and wanting anyone _but_ Thorin to see them. While they’d grown closer since the end of the quest – though Bilbo would like to be very much closer, if the giddy flutters his heart suffered whenever Thorin looked in his direction were anything to go by – there were some things Bilbo didn’t necessarily want to share with him (giddy flutters aside).

“It must be something very important indeed, if it can keep our hobbit from his meals,” Thorin smiled, coming ever closer to the desk. Bilbo ignored the butterflies in his stomach at being referred to as such and met Thorin halfway across the room, hoping to distract him and guide him away and out of the room; but he had no such luck. Thorin, it seemed, was determined to find out what it was Bilbo had been up to and before Bilbo could protest he was by the desk, examining the blooms littering Bilbo’s pages. He said nothing as Thorin looked, suddenly incredibly embarrassed.

“I’m out of practice,” he began at the same time as Thorin said, “These are wonderful.” In spite of himself Bilbo felt a smile bubble up over his face at Thorin’s words, accompanied as they were by an intense glance that also turned into a smile. It was something Bilbo was still unused to seeing – Thorin looking happy – but it was also something he would very _gladly_ get used to.

“You should paint us sometime,” Thorin said, his gaze falling back to the flower sketches.

Bilbo hesitated. “Is this...the Company, or the royal ‘us’?” he asked, only half joking. It had been truly disconcerting the first time he’d sat with Thorin in one of the diplomatic meetings with the Men of Dale and the Mirkwood elves, and the dwarf had started referring to himself as “we”. Apparently it was royal protocol, but Bilbo was glad Thorin hadn’t appeared to have taken it up full-time. Although now he wasn’t sure.

His comment made Thorin smile a little. “I mean the Company,” he said, turning to join Bilbo. “Though I’d hope you’d still paint me too.”

“I – of course,” Bilbo agreed without thinking, Thorin’s warmth beside him and gentle hand on his back leading him out of the room limiting his thought processing capabilities. “I’d love to.” And how true that was – Bilbo could spend hours just on the dwarf’s hair, on perfecting the shade of ebony and shooting it through with silver. Even now he could imagine mixing the warmth of firelight into that coal black hair, or limning it with the white light of the day –

He flushed as he realised what he was thinking and became aware of that very large, very warm hand on his back and moved ever so slightly away from it. Not because it was unwelcome – on the contrary, Bilbo didn’t want that hand to leave him ever and could just imagine leaning into the dwarf’s solid weight beside him, feeling that hand move – but it was those thoughts exactly that made it prudent he remove himself from it.

They fell into silence as they made their way to the dining room and Bilbo let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding when they entered the noisy room full of people chatting as they waited for their king and a hobbit. Bilbo was grateful for the distraction and the fact he wasn’t sitting next to Thorin – it was becoming increasingly difficult to hide the nervousness that beset him whenever he was within even a foot of the dwarf.

Dinner was loud and cheerful and Bilbo was soon sleepy with the good food; he forgot all about portraits and commissions as he fell into bed later that night and drifted off to sleep, instead thinking of a certain dwarf with striking blue eyes which were prone to making him feel a little weak at the knees.

*

Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure how it happened, but somehow over the next couple of weeks he was roped into painting little miniatures of his friends – something he was unsure of himself but found himself enjoying rather a lot. True to form, he spent the most time on mixing the perfect colours; the portrait itself may not have been a perfect likeness but he managed to capture the essence of his friends’ personalities with the depth of colour and shadow – the cheerful glint in Bofur’s eye and the way his mouth always looked ready to break out into a smile, Balin’s wise, kind face, Ori’s shy knowledge.

The only dwarf he didn’t paint was Thorin.

Not because he didn’t want to – secretly Thorin was the one dwarf he would give anything to paint, especially now he was more practiced – but because the dwarf simply wasn’t around as much. He never saw Bilbo’s work and consequently never asked again to be painted. Perhaps Bilbo could have asked him himself, but the fluttering in his stomach made it easier to simply avoid the dwarf king as much as possible and avoid any potentially embarrassing situations. And Thorin had never mentioned their conversation again, had never brought up Bilbo’s promise to paint him, so Bilbo assumed he’d either forgotten or hadn’t been that interested anyway. He liked to think it was the former, as he remembered the earnest look in Thorin’s eyes and it made him warm to think of it. But Thorin had much more important things to think about and remember than some silly promise of a painting, after all.

*

Bilbo had joined Bofur on a trip out to Laketown, wanting to get some fresh air after so long in the mountain, and he’d had wanted to walk the edge of the lake seeing as the weather had been so fine. Like the good friend he was, Bofur had obliged, though upon returning Bilbo realised they’d walked further than he’d thought and found himself struggling to keep his eyes open once they were enveloped in the warmth of their quarters.

“I think I’ll go and take a nap before dinner,” Bilbo told his friend and the two parted ways cheerfully, Bilbo immediately heading to the bed (which was far too big for him, but there had been much more important things to sort than a bed being too big) and cocooning himself in the blankets and furs. He’d spent the evenings staying up rather late, reading or painting, and the lack of sleep was catching up with him now. Yes, the warmth was really rather lovely…

The next thing Bilbo knew, he was being woken by knocking on his door. Rather loud and insistent knocking, just this side of rude. He wasn’t happy about being woken up like that, and he reluctantly dragged himself out of bed and pulled on his robe, ready to give whoever it was a piece of his mind.

“Yes, _yes_ ,” Bilbo said out loud, “I’m coming!” He threw open the door and found himself face to face with Thorin. “Oh,” he said.

“Bilbo, are you alright?” Thorin sounded strangely worried.

“Yes, I’m perfectly fine,” Bilbo replied, frowning. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“You didn’t come to dinner, and when you didn’t join us after I – we thought something had happened–”

“Gracious, what time is it?” Bilbo cried. “I missed dinner?”

“It’s nearly ten o’clock,” Thorin said. “Are you _sure_ you’re alright?”

“I was sleeping,” Bilbo told him, not a little exasperated at Thorin’s insistence but at the same time feeling strangely gratified. “That’s all. Why didn’t anybody wake me?”

“We thought you were just running late,” Thorin frowned. “That you were painting or something. Then you didn’t join us afterwards so I came to check on you.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Bilbo said, suddenly very aware that he was standing in front of Thorin in his worn old robe and his hair still mussed from sleep, a stark contrast to Thorin who still looked every inch a royal. Bilbo self-consciously tightened the belt of his robe, drawing the fabric closer to his body, and dropped his gaze to the floor. He wished Thorin wouldn’t stare at him so, it made his stomach do the most uncomfortable somersaults inside him –

“I’ll tell the kitchens to send you some food up,” Thorin said, breaking the silence and making Bilbo jump.

“Thank you,” Bilbo smiled at him gratefully, but Thorin made no move to leave. “Would…would you like to stay for a while?” Bilbo asked, hope flaring in his belly. It had been so long since he’d spoken to Thorin for longer than a few words at dinner… “You could ask them to bring you a nightcap with my dinner,” he continued, hoping he didn’t sound _too_ hopeful.

Thorin didn’t reply immediately and Bilbo felt cold disappointment sweep through him; he looked away from Thorin’s piercing blue gaze and leaned against the doorframe just for a moment. But then Thorin spoke and the words he’d been expecting didn’t come.

“I’d like that,” was all he said, but it was enough for Bilbo, who looked up, heart beating erratically all of a sudden.

“I’d like that too,” he said, smiling, and just for a moment neither said anything until Bilbo suddenly remembered he was in his robe again. “Let me change into something more respectable!”

He dashed away from the door, letting Thorin talk to a passing servant and invite himself inside, and hurried into his bedchamber, where he threw off the robe and pulled a comb through his unruly curls before pulling on a nicer shirt. Now that he didn’t feel so scruffy, he’d feel much better next to Thorin and his impeccable robes.

He left his bedchamber and shut the door softly behind him as he re-entered the main living room; he found Thorin sitting in one of the chairs before the fire – which he’d obviously rebuilt while Bilbo was changing, and didn’t that make his heart swell with affection – and he looked round when Bilbo appeared.

“Dinner has been summoned,” he said, the edges of his mouth turning up and Bilbo returned the smile.

“Oh good. I’m really very hungry now,” he said, only now noticing quite how hungry he really was. He settled into the chair next to Thorin’s, enjoying the warmth of the fire on one side and Thorin so close on the other (though of course he’d never admit that to the dwarf). “We hobbits aren’t made to miss meals.”

“That’s what happens when you go on inadvisably long walks,” Thorin said, his eyes crinkling with another smile, and Bilbo laughed even as his heart hammered in his chest as if it was going to escape. “Bofur told us all about it.”

“But it was so nice outside!” Bilbo protested.

“I will never understand your love for the outdoors, Bilbo,” Thorin said, and Bilbo noticed how he was relaxing into the chair, his shoulders loosening and hands simply resting on the arms, rather than gripping them as he usually did when Bilbo saw him.

“Just as I will never understand how you can _not_ love it,” he replied with a smile. “Sometimes I miss sitting in my garden in Bag End, in the shade of the oak tree and the flowers in bloom…” He sighed. “That’s why I draw them so much, my flowers. I still miss them.”

Thorin didn’t say anything for a moment and Bilbo noticed with concern how his hands tightened on the arm of the chair, but whatever he had or hadn’t been about to say was interrupted by a knock at the door. Bilbo jumped up to get it, grateful for the distraction.

The cook had sent up a delicious-smelling stew and bread for Bilbo and a mug of ale to wash it down with, along with a pot of tea and two china teacups.

“I ordered enough tea for two,” Thorin said as Bilbo looked at it in surprise. “You’re right, it is wonderfully calming. I’ve grown quite fond of it before bed.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but smile. “And you are full of surprises, Thorin Oakenshield,” he said, laughing and pouring Thorin a cup. He tried his best not to jump when their hands touched for the slightest moment as Thorin took it from him.

As Bilbo ate they spoke of things, Thorin describing his day and its numerous meetings and councils, and Bilbo was reminded of how unsurprising it was that the lines on Thorin’s face were growing deeper, his countenance stony and the shadows under his eyes darker.

“It’s been a long time since we last sat like this,” Bilbo informed him after they’d both fallen quiet and Bilbo poured them both another cup of tea. “I’m glad you could stay.”

“As am I,” Thorin said and Bilbo was touched by how sincere he sounded. They sat in silence again for a little after that, the only sound the fire and their sips of tea, until Thorin spoke again, watching Bilbo closely.

“I’ve seen your paintings of the others.” Bilbo felt his face go pink. What was Thorin going to say – was he angry that he hadn’t painted him? “They’re really very good.” Bilbo felt his stomach perform some incredibly impressive acrobatics and he hid his smile in his teacup.

“I hope they met Your Majesty’s approval,” he said, a little boldly, his stomach flipping as Thorin held his gaze with that achingly sweet smile still on his lips. “I’ve only just really got to grips with my paintbrushes after so long.”

“They were wonderful, Bilbo, truly,” Thorin said and Bilbo could hear the earnestness in his voice. “However, I was wondering where mine is? You did, after all, promise to paint me.”

Thorin was looking at him almost _cheekily,_ and Bilbo could see where Fili and Kili got their troublesome streak from. And with his face – Bilbo didn’t stand a chance. He ignored the fluttering of his heart as he nodded, still not able to quite wipe the grin from his face.

“I could hardly paint your portrait without a reference, _Sire_ ,” he returned jauntily. “It would be a travesty, and would never do you justice.”

“Well in that case,” Thorin said, drawing himself up to his full height and raising one noble eyebrow, and Bilbo wondered when exactly they had entered into this game, “it would be an honour to sit for the Hero of Erebor.” His face as he looked at Bilbo then, a definite smirk playing around his face, was almost enough to avert Bilbo’s indignation at the use of that Yavanna-forsaken moniker. “We begin tomorrow.”

“As you wish,” Bilbo replied, nodding in agreement and his smile returning to his face even as his stomach was jumping and twisting at this…familiarity. It had been weeks since they’d said more than two sentences to each other, and now here they were sparring words and – and – calling each other _names_!

Thorin didn’t look away and Bilbo suddenly felt incredibly self-conscious, overly aware of that gaze, and he glanced down to fiddle with his mug, hoping Thorin wouldn’t notice the colour staining his cheeks.

He looked up when Thorin stood, setting his cup down gently on the side table and Bilbo forced himself not to watch Thorin’s hands as he handled the china. “I will leave you to your rest now, Bilbo,” Thorin said and Bilbo hurried to his feet, looking up at the dwarf.

“Yes,” he said, then frowned; he hoped Thorin didn’t think he _wanted_ him to go – Bilbo would be very happy if he stayed a while longer – “You’ll be back tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Thorin said, his mouth quirking up into a smile. “You need your reference for my painting, don’t you?” Bilbo just smiled and continued looking up at him, trying to think of something to say to prolong the moment. “I’ll see you tomorrow at dinner,” Thorin said.

“Alright,” Bilbo replied, his mind turning up a blank. Thorin watched him for a moment longer and then he turned and headed to the door, shutting it softly behind him and Bilbo was left alone, a strange mix of emotions swirling around inside him.

*

As promised, Bilbo saw Thorin again at dinner the next day and was rewarded with what was, for Thorin, a beatific smile and Bilbo had to fight the sudden swooping of his stomach at that. He dreaded the day Thorin _actually_ smiled with full force – Bilbo didn’t think his heart would stand that.

Dinner was just the same as it ever was: raucous, noisy and comfortable, and if Bilbo was a little more aware of Thorin’s presence than he was usually, perhaps it was to do with that smile he’d been greeted with earlier. It was only afterwards, when some of the others began to leave and the servants were clearing up the empty plates and platters, that Thorin approached Bilbo.

“Good evening, Bilbo,” Thorin greeted him, his voice low and surprisingly soft. Bilbo gave him a smile, ignoring the fluttering in his stomach.

“Good evening yourself,” he quipped, and Thorin didn’t smile but the corners of his mouth definitely twitched upwards.

“You haven’t forgotten our agreement?”

“Of course not,” Bilbo replied, finding it difficult to stop smiling and all the while cursing himself for being such a fool – but seeing Thorin so… _normal_ made him happy. “How could I forget?”

“Good,” and Thorin definitely _did_ smile then. “I’m ready if you are.”

“Yes – of course–” Bilbo hoped he didn’t sound as breathless as he felt, and he was sure his cheeks were flushing pink as he waved goodnight to the others - who were watching with interest as Bilbo was guided out of the room by Thorin.

They didn’t speak on the walk back to Bilbo’s rooms but it was a content sort of silence; Bilbo’s heart was in his mouth but Thorin at least seemed perfectly content to be there walking beside Bilbo.

When they got to Bilbo’s rooms the fire had been stoked by a servant and it was warm and cosy, the light just perfect for painting by. Bilbo couldn’t wait to mix those fiery tones into Thorin’s ebony hair, warming his skin –

“Where do you want me?”

“I’m sorry?” Bilbo spluttered.

“Where should I go? Do you want me to sit, stand?” Thorin repeated and Bilbo could only hope he didn’t know what had gone through Bilbo’s mind at his words.

“Oh,” Bilbo said, sure his cheeks were pink, “well. If you approve, I’d like it to be a little...less formal? Perhaps you could sit in the armchair here, just by the fire…?” He trailed off when Thorin didn’t say anything. “Is that alright? Or I could try and do something more formal if you’d prefer…”

“No,” Thorin shook his head. “I prefer your idea. I have enough formality during the day.” He wasn’t smiling but his expression was a little less grim than usual – a sort of softness to his features – as he settled down into the chair. “How’s this?”

“Perfect,” Bilbo smiled at him. “Are you comfortable like that?”

“Perfectly so,” Thorin rumbled and Bilbo had to ignore the shiver that ran down his spine at Thorin’s deep voice.

“Good,” he said, turning away from the sight of Thorin perfectly backlit by the fire, golden light on his hair and the angles of his face in shadow in favour of fetching his paper and a pencil. He didn’t normally do preliminary sketching, preferring to simply start and let the paint flow, but this portrait… he wanted it to be good. He wanted it to do Thorin justice.

Silence fell as he began sketching a reference, Bilbo far too aware of Thorin watching him as he worked. He was grateful when he had enough that he could start painting, washing the paper with a pale grey. Over the grey he painted a glaze of orange in the left hand corner of the painting – that would be the fireplace, when he did the finer details later.

“How long have you been painting?” Thorin’s voice in the quiet of the room made him jump. Thorin was looking at him apologetically and Bilbo gave him a smile, partly to reassure him and partly to hide the fact he’d been so startled.

“I first learnt when I was still a faunt,” he admitted, discarding his thick brush for one with a delicate end of bristles. “My mother would take me out and we’d paint together. I had notebooks full of paintings of the hills and forests in the Shire.”

“That sounds...idyllic.”

“You’d probably have found it all very dull,” Bilbo laughed as he regarded his still mostly empty painting and decided what to paint next. He decided on the fire, and carefully began painting in the bricks of the mantelpiece. “But to a young hobbit, it was very fine indeed.”

Thorin gave a low chuckle, so low Bilbo imagined he could feel it in his own chest. He still felt that little thrill whenever he managed to make Thorin laugh or even simply smile.

They sat like that for another hour, making conversation and Bilbo working on the colours of the fire and the shadows on the wall – not because he didn’t _want_ to paint Thorin, but because he was enjoying this easy companionship so much and in truth watercolour paintings didn’t take that long; Bilbo was loath to finish too soon.

“Alright,” he said eventually. “That’s enough for now. I’m sure you’re probably bored out of your mind.”

“On the contrary,” Thorin said, stretching – and oh if Bilbo’s heart didn’t stutter painfully at the sight - “I’ve enjoyed doing nothing. And the company was passable too.”

“Only passable?” Bilbo replied, mock offended but smiling anyway. Thorin’s mouth was twitching upwards and Bilbo wanted to see it curve fully until the dwarf was smiling. “Well I’m afraid you were hardly the best I’ve ever had, Master dwarf.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow at that. “Is that so? Well, we’ll have to rectify that next time.” The haughty demeanour suddenly dropped and he looked concerned. “There will be a next time? It’s not finished, is it?”

Bilbo shook his head to hide his grin. “Not yet, no.”

“Good.” Thorin gave a short nod. “Will tomorrow evening be suitable, Master Baggins?”

“Perfectly,” Bilbo replied and Thorin nodded again. He looked as though he was going to say something, looking at Bilbo strangely, but then he seemed to decide against it.

“Until tomorrow then, Bilbo.” And with that he turned and was gone.

Bilbo shook his head, despairing of himself. He was so _ridiculous._ He looked down at his painting, the empty space where Thorin would soon be painted in; he felt a little bad for drawing out the process – he didn’t really need Thorin there, just to paint the fireplace – but Thorin had seemed happy to be there. and Bilbo wasn’t going to turn down an opportunity to have Thorin to himself, not when he barely saw him – he’d seen him more these past two days than he had during the whole two weeks before.

Carefully he set his painting aside to dry before making his own way to bed.

*

the next evening Bilbo was looking forward to seeing Thorin at dinner, having spent the day in the library with Ori, but the dwarf’s face was pinched and pale when he arrived and Bilbo felt his stomach swoop in worry. He wanted to ask what was wrong, but he didn’t. He tried not to let himself be too disappointed – if Thorin had had a hard day, it was highly unlikely he’d want to spend an hour sitting in an armchair while Bilbo fumbled about trying to paint an amateurish portrait of him. So unlikely that after dinner Bilbo was about to leave when Thorin called him back. He stopped and turned, surprised, to see Thorin walking towards him.

“Are you not feeling well enough to paint tonight?” Thorin asked, his brow creased in a frown. It deepened then. “Are you ill?”

“No, no, not at all,” Bilbo reassured him. “But I thought perhaps – perhapss you were too tired to sit for it tonight–”

Thorin gave a grim smile. “If it’s only sitting, I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’m more than capable of sitting for an hour or so,” Thorin said. “Believe me, I’ve sat through worse things today.”

“If you’re sure,” Bilbo said, his heart giving strange little flutters. He really did want Thorin to join him – he’d been looking forward to it all day (not that he’d admit that to anyone, ever) and Thorin was actually much better company than his dour demeanour suggested.

Thorin’s answer to that was to place an entirely too warm hand on Bilbo’s shoulder and lead him from the dining room towards Bilbo’s own chamber, which had his face flushing pink. He didn’t remove his hand until they were nearly at Bilbo’s door and Bilbo scurried forward to open it, hiding his blush. He was a fool to let simple touches from Thorin affect him so.

The servants had come in and stoked the fire while they’d been at dinner and the room was pleasantly warm and bright; Thorin moved to the chair he’d sat in in their previous session without hesitation and sat, watching as Bilbo got out his paints and brushes and arranged them on the desk with the painting. Bilbo was aware of that gaze on him and he muttered a curse in his head as his fingers fumbled with the brushes, dropping them before quickly picking them back up and hoping Thorin wouldn’t notice his clumsiness. When he chanced a glance up at him he saw Thorin wasn’t smiling and was simply staring at him; he looked away when he noticed Bilbo looking at him. It made Bilbo’s stomach twist; he didn’t look happy, and the last thing Bilbo wanted was to be an inconvenience.

He forced himself not to question it; Thorin had, after all, agreed.

Finally Bilbo had calmed himself enough to settle down and begin, the process of wetting the paints and watching the colours bloom calming. But as he glanced up at Thorin to begin translating his face onto paper, he saw Thorin’s expression was hard, his brows furrowed and his cheekbones prominent above his dark beard. He looked unhappy.

Bilbo would be damned before he painted Thorin like that – perhaps if he’d been painting an official portrait, a piece that would become memory, immortalising the dwarf in front of him – perhapss then, he would paint it. But he wasn’t painting anything official – he was painting his _friend_ , Yavanna’s sake – and so Bilbo paused, his brush poised above the paper.

“I spent the day in the library today,” he said nonchalantly, glancing up towards Thorin, who was still sitting a little stiffly. The dwarf made a noise but didn’t reply. “It’s truly marvellous, you know. I’ve never seen so many books outside of Rivendell.”

Thorin made a face then at the mention of the elves and Bilbo stifled his own smile. “I assure you, Master hobbit, our collection more than rivals that of the elves.”

Bilbo made a small humming noise and looked down at the painting, as if concentrating hard. “That may be so, but I’ll admit most of the volumes here were all in dwarvish. I couldn’t understand a word.”

Thorin did smile then, his eyes meeting Bilbo’s. “I’ll make sure that one of the librarians provides you with a translator next time,” he said. “You shouldn’t want for anything while you are here, Bilbo.”

Bilbo flushed a little, taken at the sincerity of Thorin’s statement. “Well,” he said, a little flustered. “If you’re certain…”

“Of course,” Thorin said and his voice was quieter, softer. “We owe this kingdom to you, after all.”

Bilbo ignored the fluttering of his stomach then and stared at Thorin. “I wouldn’t go quite that far, Thorin. It was...it was nothing.” Thorin’s smile widened and he let out a laugh. “What?” Bilbo demanded, confused but most definitely appreciative of Thorin’s strong laughter, the way his eyes were crinkling with amusement. Yes, that was how Bilbo would paint him: expression softened, head thrown back and his eyes – oh his eyes.

“Only you would describe what happened as _nothing_ , Bilbo,” Thorin said, his voice soft and Bilbo swallowed against the sudden dryness of his throat.

“Stay like that,” he ordered, ignoring Thorin’s comment – his stomach was performing acrobatics that were altogether ridiculous for someone of his age – and instead looking back at the painting. Thorin did as he was told, his eyes resting on Bilbo and his smile tugging at his face. Bilbo didn’t truly need to look up quite so many times for his reference, but, well, he needed to make sure the portrait was a true representation of Thorin. That was all; definitely nothing at all to do with the fact Thorin was smiling right at him and it would be a shame to let that pass without truly taking it in.

Bilbo had finished painting his face and moved onto the clothes he was wearing – perhaps he could add in some embellishment later but for now, he would paint Thorin in what he was wearing: simple robes – some of the nobles would say they were too simple, unfit for a king of Erebor, but Bilbo knew it was how Thorin preferred it. He avoided the gems and the gold the other nobles coveted, wary of them after how he’d fallen prey to their charms and evil after the dragon. It was something Bilbo knew he worried about every day, could see how Thorin was determined to never let it happen again and still he didn’t forgive himself. To Bilbo, that was a sign of his greatness, not the number of rubies or diamonds that adorned his crown.

Lost in his thoughts, Bilbo glanced back up to check the lighting and couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face at the sight that met him.

Thorin had fallen asleep. His head was leaning back against the back of the chair, revealing his white throat and the dark beard on his chin; his hands were curled loosely on the armrests and his expression was so at peace that Bilbo’s heart seemed to swell in his chest.

He didn’t think it was possible to love someone as much as he did Thorin in that moment.

Silently he reached for a new piece of paper and his pencil, wanting to capture this moment of peacefulness. He drew Thorin in loving detail, detailing in every line on his face and each strand of that glorious hair in the firelight. His heart was in his throat as he worked, not wanting Thorin to wake up and catch him. He didn’t know what he’d say if he knew Bilbo had watched him as he slept, and he didn’t particularly want to find out.

He sighed at his little square of paper with its sleeping Thorin when he was done and quickly shut it in his box of paints, hiding it from view, before looking back up to the real Thorin. He gave a small cough, hoping it would be enough to wake Thorin discreetly, but he didn’t even stir.

Bilbo got up and walked to him, placing a gentle hand on Thorin’s shoulder and ignoring the butterflies that swooped and fluttered in his stomach at the warmth of Thorin under his palm. Thorin opened his eyes and sat up with a jerk, looking disorientated, and his eyes eventually focussed on Bilbo.

“Bilbo?” he asked, his voice rough and scratchy with sleep and oh, Bilbo didn’t stand a chance against a voice like that. He gave a small smile, hoping Thorin wouldn’t notice his inner turmoil.

“You fell asleep,” he said softly.

“How rude of me,” Thorin murmured, sitting up and running his hands through his dark hair. Bilbo wondered what it felt like.

“No, no,” Bilbo waved away his words as he took the seat opposite Thorin. “I’m quite used to people falling asleep in my company, I assure you.” He gave Thorin a wide smile and Thorin returned it, bowing his head in Bilbo’s direction and Bilbo let his face soften. “You had a long day, Thorin. You should go and get some sleep.”

Thorin nodded, though he looked away from Bilbo to his feet.

“I hope I didn’t ruin the painting,” he said.

“Not at all,” Bilbo said. “Though it’s nearly done. I can probably finish it without needing a reference now.” Bilbo tried not to let on how much that saddened him.

Thorin looked at him with something unidentifiable in his eyes. “It’s probably best to be safe,” he said firmly. “I’ll stop by tomorrow evening.”

Bilbo’s stomach started fluttering again and he tried not to let his smile seem too enthusiastic – after all, Thorin just wanted to make sure the painting was as good as it could be. That was all.

After Thorin left him and Bilbo had packed up his paints, he sat in bed holding the little square of parchment. His eyes traced the lines he’d drawn earlier, the strong jaw, the sharp nose and cheekbones of a face that almost never looked this tranquil and peaceful. It made his heart beat painfully fast and he quickly shut the drawing away again in another wooden box, shutting it away in his bedside table drawer, unable to look at it any longer. His heart was a foolish, foolish thing, and he’d do well to ignore it completely.

But that’s always easier said than done, Bilbo sighed to himself in the darkness of his chamber. He knew it would take more than a simple telling off to stop his heart from loving Thorin Oakenshield.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your kind comments and kudos guys!!! I'm so glad you've enjoyed it so much :')

Chatting with Thorin was so easy, Bilbo found, when they were alone in Bilbo’s chambers, Bilbo working on the painting and Thorin simply sitting there. The fact that Bilbo was able to make him smile as often as he did, pull laughter from him with the intensity he did, just made it even harder to ignore his treacherous, foolish heart.

Thorin had come the next evening, as promised, and they spent the time simply talking. Thorin told Bilbo of the arguments and disagreements of his Council, the disputes he’d dealt with that day and the unceasing amounts of paperwork he had to suffer through. Bilbo only laughed and told him it sounded like an ordinary day growing up with a family like the Tooks.

Eventually there was nothing more he could do and he set the paintbrush down with a sense of finality. Thorin looked at him sharply then.

“It’s done?”

Bilbo nodded. “Wait for it to dry before you look at it though,” he suggested quickly, hoping to prolong the moment before Thorin pronounced his judgement as long as he could. “I’ll order us some tea while we wait.” He hurried to the door before Thorin could protest. To his relief the dwarf stayed sitting, making no move to go and look at the painting, and Bilbo sat in the chair opposite him.

“Is it that bad?” Thorin asked and Bilbo could detect the gentle teasing note to his voice. “Anyone would think you didn’t want me to see it.”

Bilbo straightened and gave Thorin a look of mock offence. “The final result is always better when it’s allowed to dry first. Do you not trust me?” he asked, raising his eyebrows at Thorin even as his stomach curled at the way the dwarf was looking at him.

“That I do, Master Burglar,” Thorin said seriously, his eyes not leaving Bilbo’s for a second and Bilbo’s breath began to come quick until he looked away first, hoping Thorin wouldn’t notice the way his chest was rising and falling so rapidly. Oh, Bilbo Baggins, you _fool_ , he thought at himself angrily.

“You look troubled,” Thorin’s voice broke into Bilbo’s inner musings, but he was saved from having to answer by a knock at the door. He jumped to his feet and hurried to open it, accepting the tray of tea and carrying it back to where Thorin sat, not looking at the dwarf as he carefully poured them both a cup. His hand trembled only a little at the feel of Thorin’s gaze on him and he gripped the teapot tighter.

He handed Thorin his cup with a bright smile, ignoring the fluttering feeling in his chest that turned into an ache as he watched Thorin sip his tea; after this there’d be no reason for Thorin to come and sit with him anymore. Once he saw the finished painting that would be it: no more evening meetings, no more sitting talking or in companionable silence, no more Thorin being _himself_ in the privacy of Bilbo’s chambers. Once again he’d be the king, the untouchable, distant ruler of Erebor. It made Bilbo sad to think of it and he distracted himself by taking a sip of his tea and reaching for some of the biscuits the servants had thought to send.

They didn’t speak much after that, Bilbo too preoccupied with the approaching desolation he was sure would come as soon as Thorin left the room, and Thorin no doubt thinking about his kingly duties – that frown was back on his face as he stared into his cup and Bilbo couldn’t think how to smooth it away. All too soon the teapot was empty and the biscuits all gone and he couldn’t put it off any longer.

Bilbo forced a smile onto his face, hoping Thorin wouldn’t notice if it was a little strained. “Would you like to see it then?” he asked brightly, setting his cup down on the tray so he didn’t have to meet Thorin’s eye.

Thorin made a noise of assent and Bilbo nodded and stood; he heard Thorin get to his feet and follow him over to his desk. He held out a hand to stop him before he could join him at the desk, suddenly cripplingly shy of it – how could he have thought it was worthy of Thorin? How had he overestimated his own abilities so much? He felt something hot prickling at his eyes all of a sudden.

“It’s not very good,” he whispered, glancing down at it. He could see the dedication and the love that had gone into every stroke, but to Thorin it would simply be...a poor rendition of his likeness. A waste of time. Bilbo couldn’t bear it. He looked up at Thorin, who was regarding him strangely, and felt the tightness in his throat constrict a little more. “I did tell you I was still practicing,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound too disappointed. He stepped back and let Thorin view the painting, the sum of his hours of observing and painstaking detailing of light and shadow, of mixing colours…

There was silence for a few long, excruciating moments and Bilbo swallowed thickly.

“You hate it, don’t you? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–”

“Bilbo,” Thorin interrupted him and turned, his blue eyes surprisingly warm as they landed on him before – of all things – Thorin gave a low chuckle. “This is wonderful,” he said, turning back to it, his gaze wandering over the painting. There was reverence in his voice and it warmed Bilbo to his very core, making him flush. He knew Thorin was only being kind but – “I’ll have the Guilds smith a frame for it. Perhaps to go in the throne room?”

He was looking at Bilbo and his eyes crinkled at Bilbo’s horrified expression. He started to protest, but when he noticed the amusement in Thorin’s eyes he clicked his mouth shut, his own mouth curving into a smile. “You’re teasing me,” Bilbo accused.

“Only a little,” Thorin conceded, not a hint of contrition in his voice. “But only about it going in the throne room. I do mean to have it framed, however, but I want it somewhere I can see it. Perhaps in the council chamber instead, since I spend my life there these days.” He was still smiling but Bilbo saw the tension come back to his shoulders. He couldn’t help it – Thorin was so _perfect_ in that moment, so kind and overworked and so overpoweringly _Thorin_ that Bilbo didn’t even stop and think before he lightly placed a hand on Thorin’s arm. Thorin jumped and tensed but didn’t back away; it was Bilbo who pulled his hand away as if burned. Thorin gave him a tight smile and glanced back down at the painting, his hand coming up as if to touch it before he stopped, fingers hovering a mere centimetre above the paper.

“I’ll send someone for it tomorrow,” he said, his voice low. Bilbo felt his stomach knot at the sound of it, how he could almost feel it in his chest. “If that pleases you?”

“I – yes,” Bilbo agreed, fiddling with his waistcoat pocket. Already he could feel Thorin slipping away from him, retreating into himself and he tried not to let his disappointment show in his face. “Yes, that’ll do perfectly, I’m sure.”

He turned to Bilbo then, his hand retreating back from the painting and Bilbo noted how it had formed a fist before being hidden by the folds of his robes. Thorin gave him a courtly bow, his unreadable eyes not leaving Bilbo’s, and he turned and headed to the door.

“Thorin!” Bilbo called out, his heart suddenly clenching at the thought that he might not spend time with Thorin like this for a while; Thorin paused with his hand on the door handle. “Please come back and have tea with me again,” Bilbo said, going for nonchalant and ending up – to his own ears – slightly breathless.

Thorin bowed his head in Bilbo’s direction again and there was a hint of a smile in his eyes before he strode out, shutting the door softly behind him.

*

The evenings were long and boring now Bilbo had no painting to finish and – much to his disappointment – no Thorin to chat to. He often went to spend time with Bofur instead, and Fili and Kili would sometimes keep him entertained if they weren’t being kept busy with their royal duties, and while seeing them all did raise his spirits he couldn’t deny that the complete lack of Thorin dragged them back down again. He wouldn’t admit it to himself though, just as he didn’t admit the reason _why_ it hurt so much that Thorin hadn’t come to see him. Had he grown bored of Bilbo? Did he simply not care enough? He knew he was being silly but he couldn’t help it – he was sure Thorin held him in high regard but it didn’t change the fact the dwarf had stopped seeing him.

He often found himself drawing in the evenings, and more often than not it was Thorin he drew. Thorin laughing at something Bilbo had said; Thorin with his eyes closed in simple contentment and thoroughly at ease; Thorin with that small smile he sometimes had when he’d thought of something that amused him. Bilbo could no more stop his hand from drawing than he could stop his heart stuttering when he thought of Thorin.

He was in his chamber before the fire, pencil and paper before him with a half-finished Thorin – this time looking directly out of the paper with a gleam in his eye, the same gleam he had when he teased Bilbo – and the warmth of the fire started to lull him to sleep. He was incredibly comfortable and content there, not quite asleep but too heavy to move. He thought he heard a knocking on the door but he wasn’t sure; who would be knocking at this time of night?

“Bilbo?”

He opened his eyes with a jolt, his paper tumbling to the floor as he looked around in alarm only to see Thorin standing at his side, looking vaguely worried.

“Thorin!” Bilbo exclaimed, trying to still his beating heart. He stood and hastily bent to retrieve his sketch, hoping desperately Thorin hadn’t seen it. “Come in, come in,” he said, though of course it was far too late for that now, stuffing his half-finished sketch into his little wooden box where he kept all the others and snapping it firmly shut. He turned to face Thorin, still standing by the fire. “Sorry for the mess – I wasn’t expecting you,” Bilbo explained, rolling up onto the balls of his feet nervously as Thorin stood there.

“You mentioned I might stop by,” Thorin said, his brows knitting together. “If it’s inconvenient…”

“No, no!” Bilbo protested, hoping he didn’t sound _too_ keen. “It’s very much convenient, actually, I was just about to order some tea.”

Thorin’s lips curved in a hint of a smile. “You looked to be sleeping.”

“Oh, hush,” Bilbo said good-naturedly as he went to the door to ask for tea to be brought. “I was about to wake up anyway, you only hastened the process.”

“What’s in the box?” Thorin asked as Bilbo settled in to the seat opposite.

“Box? Oh, that.” Thorin was gesturing to Bilbo’s box where his sketches were kept. He knew he should have left it safe in his room – now he was afraid he’d not be able to stop looking at it guiltily. “Nothing all that important really. I’m starting to write my memoirs.”

Thorin lifted his eyebrows. “Your memoirs? Then I hope you’ll let us read them one day.”

“Oh, I’m sure of it!” Bilbo said, hiding his nerves by taking a slice of cake he’d pilfered from the kitchen that afternoon.

It was so easy again, just as Bilbo had hoped it would be, and Bilbo couldn’t stop his heart doing funny things inside him at every look Thorin gave him.

“It’s been a trying day,” Thorin was saying, massaging his scalp but not looking too glum about it as Bilbo poured tea. “Though I don’t mind admitting it’s all much less tedious now your painting is up.”

Bilbo looked up in surprise, narrowly missing spilling his tea. “It is?”

Thorin looked pleased, his eyes glinting just a little as he looked at Bilbo. “It is. You should come and see it.”

“Yes,” Bilbo said, looking back down at the tea, “I think I should like that.”

Despite the fact they hadn’t been alone like this in a good couple of weeks, Bilbo felt surprisingly at ease. Thorin seemed a little preoccupied, less at ease than he had been  when he’d been sitting for his portrait, though Bilbo supposed it was only to be expected: Balin had told him certain advisors were being difficult about the treaties with Dale and Mirkwood, both of which Bilbo knew were still sore points for Thorin. That he’d come to see him despite the trouble… if Bilbo’s cheeks grew a little warm he put it down to being so close to the fire. And definitely not to the fact he was close enough to Thorin to notice that his top button had been undone, pale skin covered in dark hair just visible. He looked away and took a gulp of tea, nearly choking himself in the process; it didn’t help when Thorin patted him on the back with his big hands that Bilbo had often imagined him doing _other_ things with.

It was almost a relief when Thorin left, the knowledge of his secret thoughts and the box sitting just on the table there and what it contained making him just a little jumpy. Not enough for Thorin to notice but enough to pull Bilbo from his usual calmness, to make him feel a little off-kilter.

He sighed as Thorin left and placed his box safely on his bedside table before going to sleep, his dreams full of large gentle hands and blue eyes.

He woke early the next morning and decided to take Bofur to Dale to visit the markets – he needed to clear his mind and he hoped a brisk ride over to the city of Men would help rid him of these hopeless thoughts. They set off with saddlebags full of food for the journey – they may be headed to a market but Bilbo was still a hobbit and he would need to have second breakfast en route – and passed a very pleasant day amongst the noise and the bustle of Dale, its former glory being restored bit by bit. Bilbo could almost imagine how it must have looked before Smaug, proud and glittering next to the mighty dwarven kingdom in the mountain. He sighed, as that train of thought only led him right back to Thorin.

They headed back as the sun began to set, Bilbo feeling tired and saddle-sore but content and strangely lighter than he had when he’d left that morning – it had been too long since he’d been in the sun for any length of time. He was heading into his quarters when one of the guards stationed on the corridor called to him.

“His Majesty called while you were out, Your Grace,” he said. Bilbo forgot to reprimand the use of the absurd title – he was no noble to be addressed as ‘Your Grace’! – in his confusion at Thorin calling during the day. Normally he wouldn’t stop by until much later. “His Majesty said he wished to show you the Council chamber, but since you were out he’d leave a note.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo said absently. He nodded at the guard and headed inside, looking for Thorin’s note. He had mentioned the council chamber the night before, but Bilbo hadn’t expected him to ask him so soon.

There was no note awaiting him in the main room, neither on the mantelpiece or the table, so he headed to his bedchamber, thinking it a little odd but it was Thorin, after all; he felt his stomach clench as he pushed open the door.

His box that he kept all the sketches in was sitting lidless on the bed.

His body seemingly turning to ice, he forced himself forward, cold hands reaching for his box; his bloodless lips let out a soundless whisper as he saw it was empty. Completely empty – all his sketches were gone. He lifted the bedcovers, pulled open the drawers in a frenzy, felt under the bed, his heart hammering away as if it was going to beat right out of his chest, but the sketches were nowhere to be found.

Letting out a little noise Bilbo sat heavily on the bed,covering his face with his hands and holding his breath to stop the tears that pricked at his eyes. This couldn’t be happening, surely – how had Thorin found them? Why had he opened the box? Oh, what a fool he was!

He let out a deep shuddering breath and as he did so he caught sight of a scrap of white paper just poking out from under the bedside table, as if it had been dropped and forgotten about; immediately he dived down to pick it up. It was thick white parchment, good enough for royal use, and there was Thorin’s surprisingly neat cursive script, his signature a firm flourish in the corner. All it said was that he regretted missing him but that he’d see him at dinner that evening, but Bilbo’s heart began to race again.

It was fine, he reasoned. Thorin was reasonable: he’d explain that they’d been preliminary sketches, practice for the final portrait, and that was all. Thorin wouldn’t be angry, he was sure. His heart started to slow as he told himself this and he forced himself calmly dress for dinner, taking extra care in brushing his curls on his head and his feet. All would be well. He didn’t let himself wonder why Thorin had taken the sketches rather than leaving them there; but just as Bilbo had an explanation for their existence  (even if it was a tiny white lie) he was sure Thorin would too.

He was feeling quite determined as he strode to dinner, almost sure of himself; but Thorin wasn’t there when he arrived and still hadn’t arrived when the food started to turn cold; his seat remained stubbornly empty even as dessert was served and Bilbo’s stomach had tied itself back up in knots. He picked at his food, unable to eat for the tightness in his stomach.  No one else knew where he was either, though they didn’t seem so concerned.

Bilbo hardly slept that night for worrying, no matter how much he told himself he was over-reacting.

He woke early and headed straight for Thorin’s chambers, asking the guards to let him in.

“The King is out hunting,” one of them said. “He left at first light.”

“Well, when will he be back?” Bilbo bristled impatiently. “It’s important that I see him.”

“I cannot answer that, Your Grace.”

“I want to be told as soon as he arrives back,” he said irritably and stomped back to his room muttering to himself, stopping off in the kitchens for some breakfast.

But Thorin still wasn’t back by the evening and it turned out he’d taken Dwalin with him. Dis shrugged when Bilbo asked about it.

“Thorin used to love hunting before,” she said. “It’s odd he’d go off without telling us, but he used to go for days at a time. He’ll be fine, Master Baggins.”

He was gone for three days, three interminably long days where Bilbo’s brain decided to concoct all sorts of terrible scenarios involving horrific wounds, or Thorin being so angry that Bilbo had dared to draw him asleep that he threw him out of Erebor -

He knew he was being irrational, but in his defence so was Thorin. It surely couldn’t be a coincidence that the day his sketches went missing so did Thorin; Bilbo hadn’t had the courage to ask any of the others if they knew anything about the sketches. That would involve revealing far more than he was comfortable with.

Finally, nearing midnight on the third day, a messenger knocked to say that Thorin had returned but that he didn’t wish to be disturbed. Without hesitation Bilbo pulled on his coat and hurried through the corridors to Thorin’s quarters, meaning to force him to own up and also to apologise and explain himself; before he could get anywhere near Thorin’s door he was stopped by the two guards.

“We’re very sorry, Your Grace,” one said sheepishly. “But his Majesty specifically requested no company.”

“I need to speak to him,” Bilbo said, “it’s _urgent.”_

“Even so,” the other dwarf said. “He doesn’t want to see anyone. He said no exceptions.”

Not wanting to cause a scene Bilbo returned to his own room, his heart feeling distinctly painful. He sat on the edge of his bed and finally he let the tears come, tears that burned his eyes and made him hiccup. Why was Thorin refusing to see him? Surely he’d want an explanation?

He wiped his tears away angrily. He was a fool – a fool for loving where he shouldn’t; a fool for letting himself indulge like he had, harmless as he’d thought it was; a fool for not guarding that box and its contents more jealously. Thorin should never have been able to find it, let alone open it and have a look.

Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he’d finally see him, whether Thorin wanted to see him or not.

But the next day Thorin was busy, always somewhere else: when Bilbo knocked on his door he was told Thorin was in the Council chamber; when Bilbo waited there to see him after his meeting the guards informed him Thorin had already left for the throne room to take petitions. Bilbo wouldn’t stoop as low as petitioning just to see the stubborn oaf of a dwarf – he still had some dignity, after all. He paused in the Council chamber, his eyes falling on the painting. Thorin really had put it up, and the gilded frame it had been placed in had little golden leaves and whorls of flowers and vines creeping up the side. It was a piece of art more impressive than the _stupid_ picture inside it and Bilbo turned and hurried away, unable to look at the picture that had led them to this.

He went to Thorin’s chamber again that evening after the dwarf didn’t show up for dinner, but this time he didn’t bother knocking. He simply handed the guards a note asking that Thorin speak with him, sealed with his green wax, and requested they pass it on to Thorin as soon as possible before heading back to his own chamber. He felt incredibly small and incredibly lonely in that huge mountain; he missed Thorin dreadfully.

He spent the next day in the library with Ori, letting the dwarf translate some of the older texts for him. He lost himself in an old tome chronicling the founding of Erebor and it was only when Ori came to nudge him and tell him it was time for dinner that he was reminded of his current predicament and his previously content and happy mood deflated.

“I don’t think I’ll join you at dinner tonight. I’ll stop off in the kitchens,” he said glumly.

“What’s happened?” Ori asked. “It must be something truly terrible to put our hobbit off his food.”

Bilbo gave a wry smile. “Nothing serious,” he reassured him. “But I’ll get an early night tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow, Ori.” They parted and headed their separate ways, Bilbo trudging back to his own chamber after grabbing some food from the kitchen staff. Not even the extra pudding the cook gave him could make him feel any better – not when he felt as if his whole world was falling around his ears.

Well, Thorin couldn’t avoid him forever, he thought as he hurried through the corridor with his tray. Sooner or later they were bound to bump into each other.

He reached his own quarters and shut the door behind him, letting out a little sigh at being in the safety of his chambers. He headed towards the dining table but froze, his hands beginning to shake and he quickly set the tray down before he could drop anything, clenching his fists in his jacket to stop them shaking.

There on the desk was the box, again lying open, only this time there was something inside.

Unable to stop his hands quivering he reached into the box, pulling out the papers inside – all his sketches were there, every single one. They hadn’t been defaced or destroyed to Bilbo’s relief; but that didn’t answer the question as to what they were doing in his chamber? Had – had Thorin returned them? He flicked through the sheaves of parchment, his heart hammering against his throat as he looked at his own work. Yavanna, just the sight of Thorin on a page made his heart ache even more.

Suddenly he was no longer looking at Thorin but at – himself – that was very definitely Bilbo Baggins in this picture, sitting at his desk with a frown creasing his brow. His heart jumped to his throat as he looked at the sketch, the detail in his hair. Even his pointed ear was visible under the riot of curls.

There was another unfamiliar sketch, this one of Bilbo with a cup of tea sitting in his armchair, a peaceful expression on his face. Bilbo’s hands were trembling so much he could hardly get a good look at the sketches now, his breathing coming short and sharp. With an unsteady hand, he looked at the last unfamiliar sketch in the pile, and his heart fairly stopped.

Staring out at him from the page was Bilbo himself, curls tangled and mud on his cheek, his jacket torn. He stared out from the page and met his gaze straight on, unafraid and yet gentle at the same time. The page was torn at the corners and creased along the middle, smudges of dirt and a suspicious rust red stain in the centre.

He didn’t even need to look to know that just underneath where his heart would be he’d find Thorin’s initials in Khuzdûl runes. Hardly daring to breathe Bilbo glanced down, looking away from the almost _arresting_ gaze of his paper self, and there they were: angular lines scratched onto the parchment. He let the papers fall from his grip, his heart beating so fast he thought he might faint. He hadn’t realised Thorin had carried it all this way, that it had survived their Mirkwood imprisonment, the barrel ride and Smaug. He gently touched the muddied parchment, his breath leaving him in a soft gasp.

Thorin had sat him down as they rested in Beorn’s garden and requested to draw him. Bilbo had acquiesced, his heart fluttering even as it did now – though back then it had been sheer surprise that Thorin spoke to him, treated him as one of his own. Now it fluttered because Bilbo was a fool who couldn’t guard his own emotions properly.

And yet – here was the likeness Thorin had taken of him, so clearly and carefully rendered, carried hundreds of miles through uncountable dangers, kept safe somewhere on the dwarf’s person.

_Why?_

He felt light-headed but he knew if he didn’t go now he never would; he bundled up the sketches and fairly ran out of his room towards Thorin’s. The guards looked as if they were about to stop him but there must have been something in his face that silenced their protests as they let him pass. Bilbo knocked unceremoniously on Thorin’s door, short of breath and unsure if it was because of the running or the papers clutched to his chest; it seemed as though Thorin was going to ignore him, leave him hammering on the door all night, but eventually it opened.

“Bilbo.”

Bilbo looked up at Thorin, his heart faltering. He had dark circles under his eyes and he couldn’t meet Bilbo’s eye.

“Won’t you let me in?” he asked, his breath catching in his throat. “It’s terribly bad manners to leave someone on the doorstep, you know.”

Thorin gave a snort but he opened the door wider and stepped aside to let Bilbo pass. Bilbo shut the door gently behind him; Thorin was by the fireplace, not looking at him. He glanced around when he felt Bilbo’s gaze on him but returned to staring at the fire. Bilbo strengthened his resolve.

“You were avoiding me,” he said, trying not to sound accusatory. “You – you went through my things and you stole my belongings and then you avoided me–”

“Those sketches of myself were not authorised,” Thorin said shortly. He still wasn’t looking at Bilbo, his hands hidden in his robes though by the tension of his shoulders Bilbo was sure they were clenched into fists. “By rights they should have been destroyed.”

Bilbo felt himself go cold and desperation rise I’m him. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m sorry if I offended you, Thorin, you know that’s the last thing I would ever mean to do. But they were – I – I was practicing for your portrait and I didn’t think it would be a problem–”

“Is that all they were?” Thorin interrupted him, his voice expressionless.

“What?”                                                            

“Practice for the portrait is all they were?” There was something in his voice that Bilbo couldn’t identify and he was about to say yes, but something stopped him. He couldn’t lie to Thorin, not really, even though this would make for awkward questions and possibly even spell the end of his time in Erebor. He hunched his shoulders and turned away, clutching the sketches closer to his chest.

“No,” he said quietly, only just louder than the fire crackling in the grate. “No, they weren’t.” He took in a deep breath in the silence that followed his statement and found the sketches done of him. “You had this all along,” he said, turning back but not meeting Thorin’s gaze. He held out the creased and dirtied parchment. “You said it had been lost in Mirkwood but you had it – and these,” he continued, his voice growing stronger as he picked up the sketches of himself, “what are these? I don’t – where did they come from? Why do you have them?”

“I drew them.” Thorin was still staring at the fire and he didn’t look around as he spoke.

“You?” Bilbo repeated dumbly, his hands falling to his sides. “But...why?”

“Why did you draw me?” was Thorin’s answer, finally turning to face Bilbo, whose breath left him in a rush at the look on his face. His eyes were stormy and jaw set but there was insecurity behind it and Bilbo felt his heart give a weak flutter in his chest.

“Why do you think?” he whispered, closing his eyes against the sight of Thorin’s face. He couldn’t breathe and his skin was burning up now Thorin was looking at him and his stupid, _stupid_ heart was stuttering and skipping in his chest. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t help it, I tried so hard but I can’t–”

He stopped when he felt incredibly warm hands cupping his cheek gently and he held his breath, not wanting to open his eyes in case this was all just a dream – it was straight out of his dreams, after all: how many times had he dreamt of Thorin holding him just like this before leaning in and pressing their lips together –

“Tell me now if I’m mistaken,” Thorin said and his voice was rough, tortured, “tell me now if I’m mistaken in your regard for me and we’ll forget this ever happened. But if I’m not – please–”

Bilbo didn’t let him finish his sentence; he raised himself up onto his tiptoes and the sketches fluttered to the ground around them as he reached up to pull Thorin’s head closer and their lips were meeting, just a soft kiss but it was enough to make Bilbo’s breath turn shaky and he pulled away. He swallowed thickly and stared at Thorin’s chest, rising and falling rapidly, though he didn’t remove his hands from Thorin’s hair. He couldn’t meet the dwarf’s eye, just in case he’d been wrong –

But then Thorin’s mouth was pressing against his again and there was an urgency to it, Thorin’s hands moving to twist in his curls, to stroke along his ear, to swipe a thumb gently across his cheek. When they finally parted Bilbo couldn’t breathe and he felt light-headed. He clutched at Thorin’s arms and thought if he let go he might fall, his knees were so weak.

He looked up to meet Thorin’s gaze and the dwarf looked shell-shocked but was looking at Bilbo as if he was the most precious thing in all the world.

“Really?” Bilbo quipped, trying to ignore the way his heart was beating so fast it might beat right out of his chest and fly away. Thorin tugged at one of his curls.

“I might ask you the same question.”

Bilbo tightened his grip on the dwarf’s arms, feeling the armour he wore beneath his robes. “So you mean to tell me that all this time you’ve been avoiding me, it’s been because… because…”

“I love you, Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin said quietly, pressing a kiss to Bilbo’s forehead and Bilbo felt his heart fairly soar out of him at that. “And have done for a long time.”

It was something Bilbo Baggins of Bag End would never have expected to hear said to him by a dwarf of all things – and a _king_ at that – but then, a lot of unexpected things had happened to him since Gandalf had turned up on his doorstep that morning, and of them all, this was rather the nicest.

_Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Thank you all so much! I really hope you enjoyed it! :D
> 
>  Now, I do have something exciting to say - I've written and basically finished a new Bagginshield fic which has taken on epic proportions and I am _so excited_ to share it with you guys! I still need to edit and polish it up a little but I'll be posting it very soon... I'll make an official post on my [tumblr](http://bespectacled-hobbits.tumblr.com/) soon - but for now, keep your eyes peeled for _Blood From Stone_ !!!

**Author's Note:**

> Next chapter will be up in the next couple of days!! Thanks for reading so far and I hope you enjoyed it!


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